As we tried to decide which direction to take first, we wondered if we ever could have another journey as delightful as the last, when we crossed the borders into Canada; then we recalled all we enjoyed on our White Mountain drive, and that suggested never-to-be-forgotten roads among the Green Mountains, and again the glories of our own Berkshire Hills, and so on until Lake Memphremagog, the White Mountains, Green Mountains, Berkshire Hills, Martha’s Vineyard, Lake Winnipiseogee, Newport, the Connecticut Valley and the network of highways we have traveled were all in a tangle, and there seemed to be no places of interest left within our reach. Next came to mind the chance suggestion of friends. One had said, “Why not take your horse aboard one of the Maine steamers and explore that part of the country?” Another thought the St. Lawrence drives very delightful, and suggested we should take our horse by rail to some point in that vicinity. A third only wished we could transport ourselves to Colorado to begin our journey. We think, however that a carriage journey taken by steamer or rail loses something of its genuineness, and brought our minds back to the familiar towns and villages adjoining our own, through some one of which we must go, and somehow decided on Shirley.
As we packed our “things” into the phaeton for the eleventh time, we asked how long such vehicles are warranted to last, and felt sure no other could serve us as well. The bags, lunch basket, umbrellas and wraps seem to know their respective places. Yes, the revolver, too, drops instinctively into its hiding place. At last we were off, but a half hour was now spent searching the shops for a drinking-cup and saying good-morning to friends, by which time we thought of a word unsaid at home, and dropped our first mail at our own postoffice. Our “reporter,” watching for items while waiting for his mail, was attracted by our traveling outfit and eagerly “interviewed” us, but with little satisfaction, as you may well know. That we were going to Shirley, six miles distant, was of little interest to him or his readers.
We now started in real earnest and soon were on the winding road to Shirley. We took our first wayside lunch before we got to Groton, where Charlie had two hours’ rest, and we passed the time pleasantly with friends. An uneventful drive of ten miles in the afternoon brought us to Westford, where we spent the first night. There is no hotel in the place, but we found a good woman who took care of us, and a jolly blacksmith opposite who promised good care for our horse. We strolled down street in the evening and called on friends who were enjoying country air and rest for a few weeks. Our sleep was refreshing, and morning found us ready for an early start somewhere, but exactly where we had no idea. After a brief consultation we concluded we should like to go to the Isles of Shoals again, and accordingly we traced the way on our map towards Portsmouth, N. H. It was hot and dusty, and we passed through Lowell with no inclination to stop, but when out of sight of the city with its heat and dust and rattling machinery, we left Charlie to enjoy his dinner and took our books in the shade down by the Merrimac River, and were fanned by its breezes for two hours. The drive through Lawrence to Haverhill, where we passed the second night, was quite pleasant.
The chief recollections of the thirty-two miles we traveled the next day are a few drops of rain in the morning, just enough to aggravate, for we were almost ready to welcome a deluge; Jumbo, whose wake we had struck, and the green beach-flies. The proprietor of the quiet tavern where we took our mid-day rest brought us “Jumbo Illustrated” for our literary entertainment, and told us his probable losses on horse-hire, etc., the following month, on account of all the people in the vicinity giving their money to Barnum. He also assured us the “green heads” would trouble us for about three miles. True to prophecy, they took possession of our horse and phaeton for that distance, then disappeared as suddenly as they came. We speculated as to their habits of life; wondered why they did not stay on the beach, where their name implies they belong, and why they did not steal five miles’ ride as well as three; then thought how humiliating it would be to feel compelled to turn away from the seashore overcome by an insignificant insect, when we could follow our own sweet will for all fear of highway robbers, or a Jumbo even.
Night found us at Portsmouth, where the discomfort was in keeping with the day, and it was with pleasure we granted our horse a rest in the morning and took passage ourselves for the Isles of Shoals. The day was perfect on the water—so fresh and cool. We landed at Appledore, and an hour passed very quickly as we met one friend after another. Suddenly a thunderstorm burst upon us; the rain fell in torrents, and hailstones rolled like marbles along the broad piazza. Surely the deluge we wished for had come, and, although it was not needed where water was everyhere, it could do no harm, and we enjoyed it to the utmost. We had planned to spend the night amid ocean, but it was so glorious after the skies cleared, we could not resist the temptation to have a drive while Nature was fresh and dripping. After dinner, we visited Mrs. Celia Thaxter’s fascinating parlor; then took the boat for Portsmouth. The calm after the storm was delightful, and we sailed on, full of anticipation for our drive.
On reaching Portsmouth we were surprised to learn it had been intensely hot all day, and not a drop of rain had fallen. It was too late to repent, and we ordered our horse, drove to the post office for our mail, our first news from home, then started for the ocean again. Our enthusiasm was somewhat abated by the sultry atmosphere; but a drive of eight miles brought us to York Beach, and a brisk walk on the hard, moist sand while the sunset clouds were fading quite restored us.
The next morning we drove leisurely along the beach, looking for familiar faces we knew were in that vicinity, from the East and West, visited one party after another, and in the afternoon drove on through Wells to Kennebunk. We had another visitation from the beach flies, but this time their persecutions continued for only a mile and a half. We looked in vain for a hotel in Kennebunk, and on inquiring were directed to a house attractively located, which we had thought to be a very pleasant private residence. The homelikeness inside harmonized with the exterior, and the host and hostess helped us to pass the evening very agreeably. This was only one of many proofs of Maine hospitality.
Before leaving Kennebunk we called at the home of a lady, one of the many pleasant people we have met in our summer wanderings, and promised to remember, “if we ever drove that way.” She is the mother of Lizzie Bourne, whose sad story and monument of stones every visitor to Mt. Washington will remember.
At Kennebunkport we surprised a party of young friends on the cliffs, and made another promised call. We found the place with some difficulty, and learned our friend was in Massachusetts. We thought hospitality reigned supreme there, when we and our horse were taken bodily possession of for luncheon and a three-hours’ visit, by a lady whom we had never seen before. Every moment passed pleasantly, and we reluctantly left our new-found friend en route to Old Orchard, towards which point we had been driving for days, just as if it had all been planned instead of “happening.”
It was our first visit to this favorite resort, and we stayed several days, waiting for letters, and doing what everybody does at such places—driving, walking and gathering shells on the beach; reading, chatting and crocheting on the piazzas, occasionally wondering where we should find ourselves next. The heat was almost insufferable—land breeze night and day. Perhaps we could have borne it better if we had known then that the invalid we watched with some interest was Vennor himself, sharing with the rest the tortures of the fulfilment of his prophecies. As it was we were ready for a change. Our letters assured us all was well at home, and we decided to drive across country to Lake Winnipiseogee.